You Will Never Find Anyone As Trusting or as Kind
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock makes a stupid decision. Mary sets him straight. Warstan, angsty Sherlolly. Mary/Molly bff sisterhood. Inspired by 'The Reynolds Pamphlet' and the cut number 'Congratulations' from Hamilton the Musical.
1. I Hope You're Satisfied

"Sherlock,"

He looked up with a start. "Mary!"

"Congratulations." She dropped her heavy purse where she stood, folding her arms across her middle, or rather, where the baby-bump was. Sherlock felt his insides twist. A dressing-down from Mary Watson was punishment enough, add to it a pregnant Mary Watson, and he'd rather face a firing squad. "You have redefined stupid."

"I-"

"I wasn't finished," she held up her hand. "Let's review: you took a basic school-yard taunt and decided to respond in kind by meeting up with Irene Adler, a woman who is so noticeably hot for you she's named a whip in her catalogue after you, met with her in broad daylight, and were seen going her flat, from which you did not exit for _five_ hours."

He shifted, visibly uncomfortable. "It was an act of sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" Mary spit out. "Tell me about that word, Sherlock, what you perceive as 'sacrifice'. I spent the most precious months of being pregnant for the first time, alone, because I knew John needed the space and time to figure me out. Molly, when she saw you were becoming overwhelmed with the idea of a relationship with her but knew you didn't like the idea of her moving away, put her career on hold, for the umpteenth time for your sorry behind to figure out what you really want." She looked at him for a long while. "John and I are moving to Baker Street, for obvious reasons."

"Mary…" Sherlock looked relieved, until she held up her hand, silencing him.

"I'm not here for you," her voice was biting, her eyes were like ice. "Molly Hooper is like a sister to me, we've never had siblings, she and I," Mary shrugged, thoughtful a moment, the anger still not leaving her eyes. "I know her like I know myself. I don't have to tell you that you will never find anyone as trusting as Molly Hooper, no one as kind or as lovely. I've stood by for years now, knowing that she loves you more than anything in this life. I've stood by and watched you go from using her to treating her well, treating her like a friend ought to be. You know she loves you, Sherlock, you've known it's more than a crush, more than a fancy or a passing infatuation. She _loves_ _you_."

Sherlock stared at his bare feet, Mary's words ringing in his ears, feeling his face burn with shame. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He had honestly thought by giving himself up to Irene Adler that it would stop the threats. It's what She wanted, wasn't it. Irene had been a danger before. Blackmail was a trick he'd always assumed was too base for her. Turns out not. So Sherlock went along with The Woman's scheme. If it would mean that Molly would be safe, Sherlock would do anything. He'd believed that by giving himself up, The Woman would let Molly be, and she'd be able to move on.

To be fair, nothing had happened. They'd gotten quite close, but in the end, Irene decided she didn't want Sherlock out of pity. But of course the damage was done now. No one would believe him if he'd said nothing happened, and he couldn't blame them. Worse of all was the look on Molly's face. It was true, he and Molly were not together officially, but there had been an unspoken understanding between them. They'd gone so far beyond cordiality now. True, lasting, wonderful friendship, with promise of what they truly felt for each other had been glimmering in his future. All it took was one rotten case, one tempting offer, and Sherlock had royally shot himself in the foot. He'd never forget the look on Molly's face when she'd been handed the newspaper, Sherlock's image sprawled across it under some tawdry (untrue) headline, arm-in-arm with Irene, heading to her flat. The pain, betrayal, shame, more at herself than him.

"Now you listen to me,"

He looked up with a start, realizing Mary had tugged John's chair nearer to his, leaning forward so she could speak directly to him, so he would be certain not to miss a word. "I will choose my sister's happiness over mine, every time, which is why I have not shot you."

"I appreciate that," he answered. To his utter relief, the smile Mary offered was at least half-amused.

"Molly is the best thing in your life, so you will never, ever lose sight of the fact that you have been given a chance to have, potentially, the best wife you could ever possibly hope to deserve."

Sherlock began to sob, truly sob then. How could he possibly deserve Molly now, how could such a woman ever believe him when he said he was so achingly sorry. He wished he could take it all back. He wanted Molly to know how desperately in love with her he was, that he wanted to marry her, only her. It took one stupid, wretched decision for him to realize it. Now all he wanted was to assure Molly of her happiness. He wanted to give her the best life. He was determined that every sacrifice would be for Molly now.

"Will you help me, Mary?" he choked out, wiping his eyes.

"Of course I will," she said quietly, after a moment. "John and I both will, but you should know that I will do whatever is best for Molly."

He nodded quickly. "Yes. As will I."


	2. She Takes His Hand

Molly stood quietly in the garden at Baker Street. It had been several months since the Adler incident, and while she was able to talk about it with relative ease if the subject was brought up, she still felt as if she were walking on egg shells around Sherlock, and vice-versa.

Laughter from the upstairs window filtered out to her. It was Mary's baby shower, Mrs. Hudson had invited everyone, and Sherlock had organized everything, from decorations to invitations. For her dearest friends, and especially for Mary, who was like a sister to her, Molly went. Seeing Sherlock cuddling their goddaughter, explaining how the baby sat in Mary's uterus, Molly felt herself smile quite warmly and from her heart. This was the Sherlock she knew. The Sherlock who could be gentle and good, in his own way. She thought back on the past few months, acknowledging to herself that Sherlock had been trying to do right by her. He kept his distance at first, knowing she needed the time. But he'd begun to slowly, slowly test her tolerance, never more than she was comfortable with, always backing off if she showed even the slightest discomfort in his presence. He stopped breaking into her flat, but if he did come over, always knocked on the door. He put back the equipment he used in the lab, and stopped demanding cadavers. He said 'please' and 'thank you', and even fetched her coffee if he was getting his own. He was still himself though, still animated over corpses and his experiments, still ready to debate consistencies of ash and what have you. He still rattled on about a successful case, whether she was listening or not. She was aware though, that he took less pleasure in talking about his cases to her, perhaps because she did not stop what she was doing to listen. He used to come to her flat in the evening after a case was solved, the tv would be switched off, she'd put the kettle on and make toasted cheese and bean sandwiches, one right after the other until he'd had his fill (she could usually manage two and a half while he, at last count, ate a staggering six) as he regaled her with his latest case and the fascinating solutions. In truth, she missed that familiarity. She _missed_ Sherlock. From what she understood of the entire Irene Adler affair, Sherlock was…well, being an idiot, decidedly so. Mary had been able to get Sherlock's side of the story, and then Molly herself went to the Consulting Detective to hear it from his own lips. There was little to say, once she knew the truth. She did trust that nothing had gone on between him and Irene Adler. If he said nothing happened, then nothing happened. Sherlock knew better than to lie about something like that to her. It wouldn't make sense to hide it. Once she knew the truth, Molly decided she and Sherlock should give each other space, and he acquiesced, promising her that whatever she needed, he would give her, whether it was time or a different schedule at Barts, or, if she truly felt the need, a new job, in a new city. Molly wasn't sure if she needed that much of a change in her life. In truth she was comfortable where she was, and while her anger and hurt at Sherlock had been very fresh at the time of his suggesting she might want to take up a job offer in the North, Molly knew it wasn't the right decision for her.

Months passed, and summer melted into autumn. Leaves skittered across the garden path as Molly made her way over to the brick wall where Charlotte Watson's flower garden sat. It wasn't as nicely put together as Mrs. Hudson's, especially now that the October frost had wilted the flowers down to scrubby, brown stalks. A stiff breeze pushed at the dried flowers, the stems bent but did not break, still holding up.

"Here you are," Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Sherlock coming down the path, clearly he'd been searching for her. "Charlotte was worried you'd left before Mary got to open the presents." He came to stand beside her. He hesitated to speak again, but found the silence worse than idle chatter. "Her garden is a little sorry, but Mrs. Hudson promises it will be better in the spring. It needs to be weeded, she tells me. I haven't the faintest clue what to pull and what to leave, nor how to trim that hideous dogwood Charlotte insisted on planting. Perhaps it won't be hideous when it blooms." The wind whistled around them, leaves swirled at their feet, catching on branches and the dried grass. "It isn't a bad place for a garden…" he bowed his head, finding he had no more words. He felt as if he'd pushed himself to his limit, trying to keep his distance from Molly, never broaching the subject of their relationship. Perhaps they'd gone as far as they could go. Perhaps only this distant friendship was all he could hope for.

Suddenly, he felt those dear, familiar fingers touch his hand, and then fit between his own fingers, her palm pressed against his.

"No," Molly answered at last. "It's quiet here, for being uptown." Her nose was red from the cold. "It's a good garden. There's em…there's a lot of potential here."

He looked at her sharply, holding his breath. "Is there?"

She met his gaze, and her gentle smile reached her warm eyes.

 _Forgiveness._

"There is. You just have to be patient."

Slowly, he nodded. They turned to face the scraggly flowers once more, until Molly tugged on his arm, drawing him towards the house. He followed obediently, this time placing her hand at his elbow, shoulders pressed together. She didn't push away or stiffen at his touch, instead she leaned against him. As they stepped through the doorway, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, a half-hug. He responded in kind, ducking his head, kissing the top of her head. He felt them both breathe easily together, and felt at last that he could smile truly again. As they made their way up into 221b, he caught sight of Mary sitting in John's chair. She'd noticed them coming into the house. Among the noise of the guests, clinking glasses and the kettle whistling, Sherlock bent close to Mary, who'd grabbed his arm as he and Molly passed by her.

Molly turned, noticing Sherlock was no longer at her side. He had stopped to talk to Mary. "What did she want?" Molly asked, thinking Mary was talking about the party.

"She was just giving me some advice," Sherlock replied. Molly nodded with a shrug. Someone was whistling to get everyone's attention, so she took a seat in the corner, Sherlock nearby. He was pleased when she placed her hand on his knee and kept it there. He met Mary's gaze across the room before she looked away, her voice still echoing in his head:

" _Give her the best life."_

Sherlock would certainly do his best.


End file.
